In Favour of more Sympathetic Planting.

Sunlight has trespassed into the plantation murk,

and, snuggled on a pool of moss,

has made a blazing emerald on the forest floor.

While all around, the abandoned paraphernalia of trees,

their dark axles’ wooden spokes remain defunct machinery

in ocean-depth gloom, seized in viscid silence,

the light argues for life in the depths of planted forests;

it asks for space, and reminds with vivid beauty

that dusk belongs only to nightfall.